The Haircut

I remember when he butchered your hair:
you couldn't even move your eyes.
I saw in you, a paralysis utterly without will:
red-hot embers stuck inside a photograph.
You shed not a single tear
as he mutilated your fragile identity.
I can't recall how long
	you sat in that chair
	on the deck
	after he'd finished....
You wore bandannas like a pirate,
for a good month,
just to hide your shame.
It has never been difficult
to feel sad for you, unfortunately.